


Lean on Me

by Stormvoël (BushRat8)



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-05
Updated: 2017-08-08
Packaged: 2018-12-11 12:08:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11714106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BushRat8/pseuds/Stormvo%C3%ABl
Summary: Not everything goes well during Barbossa's visits to Grantham House.  On one occasion, he's in the throes of grave illness and feels like he's going to die.  Fortunately, he has a devoted nurse.





	1. Arrival

**Author's Note:**

> Wandering tenses and POVs. I don't know why I keep saying that, as you already know it by now ;-) 
> 
> The flux is dysentery, and the shaking sickness is malaria. 
> 
> "Night rail" is an archaic term for a night dress, night shirt, or dressing gown. It often refers to a woman's garment, but not always, especially when a woman is speaking.
> 
> Other detailed author's notes and assorted trivia will appear as a postscript to Chapter 3, including a link to a wonderful trio of illustrations of Barbossa.

 

   
Barbossa tries to put on a tough face, but it's nigh on impossible when his head's pounding, he's fevered, and his belly feels like a burning, sloshing ale-cask with broken glass embedded in its bung.  For six days now, nearly every man aboard ship has been useless, too feeble or too busy scrabbling over each other for places at the head to do their work.  He'd bellow at them, but even if he could, they'd be hard put to hear his voice from where he's trapped in his quarters, breeches down and hunched over, in the same dire straits as the crew.  _Thank fuck for a private head I don't have t' fight for,_   he thinks blearily, wondering how the hell much his guts could possibly have left in them, especially since he's barely eaten in four days.  _Though it can't come too soon for th' hour when I can give me arse a cool wash with a bit o' sea spray._    
  
He's done exactly that late every night ever since the malaise hit;  the only relief he has from his wretchedness.  On an ordinary day, his men might grin at how silly their captain looks as he clings to the ropes, clad only in a shirt, his feet wrapped in leather, but not when they feel just as sick.  No one's laughing at anyone anymore;  not when they've had to face that blasted Will Turner and his Flying Dutchman as he's collected over a third of the crew:  thirty-seven souls who've perished of the constant, dehydrating squits.  _Please fuckin' Christ!_ they're all thinking, and Barbossa knows they're wondering if any of them will yet live to see land.  _This bain't any way for a man t' die!_  
  
Somehow, the very minimum of work does get done by those few still healthy;  just barely enough to see the ship into a familiar — and, to Barbossa, beloved — port, but the men are haggard and not much disposed to do more than rent cheap rooms and sleep as much as they can between hours spent squatting over whatever passes for a pot or pan.  It does well for the rooming houses, but the men's presence is wasted as far as the taverns are concerned, and the working ladies are vexed to find they'll be losing their trade until the next ship comes in.  The eleven who've had the good fortune to escape the affliction are tasked by Barbossa with remaining aboard to protect and look after the ship, with the provision that they may go ashore two at a time in rotation — "Ye'll receive each one of me own shares for yer care of th' _Pearl_ ,"  he tells them by way of reward, feeling too awful to give much of a damn about what a considerable loss this is to his own purse — after which he stumbles and nearly falls headlong into the last cockboat heading for land.     
  
Barbossa's so weak that he's not sure he can make it up the steep lane to where Grantham House sits;  can barely hold his head up under the weight of his hat.  "Hector?"  the innkeeper cries in dismay as he clutches the doorframe to keep from falling.  "Good Lord, what's happened to you?  What's wrong?"  
  
He looks down at her, blue eyes glistening with fever, face ashen beneath its normal ruddy hue.  "Sorry,"  he mumbles.  "Had th' goddamn bleedin', drizzlin' shits for days now, an' so's most of me crew.  More'n three dozen's already been lost…"  
  
This doesn't disgust the innkeeper;  instead, it alarms her.  She never told Barbossa that her old Gran died of the bloody flux nor that, for three weeks, she had to tend her;  but, no matter how messy and noxious, it will be easier and far less disagreeable to nurse a man she loves rather than the crotchety old woman she came to hate.  "Come, my love,"  she says in a soft, yet firm, voice.  "Don't worry anymore, you're safe now, I'll take care of you.  Put your arm around my shoulders and lean on me."  
  
Somehow, slowly, she manages to get him up the stairs, but doesn't take him to their usual room;  instead, there's a small chamber at the end of the corridor;  the sickroom where her grandmother died.  "I know it doesn't look like much,"  she says, helping to ease him onto a straw-tick that's set directly on the floor,  "but it's easier for me to care for you if you stay in here."  
  
Barbossa feels so terrible that he's not the slightest bit drawn to protest;  almost hasn't the strength to simply lie still.  
  
After binding her hair up out of the way in a kerchief and changing into her tattiest smock, the first thing the innkeeper does is relieve him of his clothes — every last reeking, soiled stitch — and although she knows it won't help for more than a few minutes at a time, she keeps bathing his face and body with cool cloths, letting the air flow over his skin.  _Don't you die on me, Hector Barbossa!_ she begs silently.  _Don't you dare.  You told me once I was captain of this house, so this captain's giving you an order:  you must live, because I won't let you do otherwise;  not on my watch!_  
  
Though she knows he might want to hide himself away in mortification later, it doesn't stop her from being there to hold him steady during his nonstop use of the chamber pot — the big covered one that old Gran filled up twelve times a day — cleansing him with soft, damp bits of linen and pretending she doesn't see the tears that squeeze from the corners of his eyes from the burning pain.  "If you don't want to get sick, get out of my house,"  she orders Cora, her maid, after which the same directive is given, with apologies, to the two current lodgers, and a hastily-inked _CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE_ sign is slapped on the door.  This is no time for business as usual;  not when the man she lives for might very well die.  
  
There's a moment when Barbossa lies back, eyes sunken, his breathing so shallow and quiet that she cannot hear it, and though she's trying to be strong for him, she gives way to panic.  "Hector!"  she wails, wringing his hands to try and rouse him.  "Don't leave me, damn you!  Hector, please, _please_ …!"  
  
He shifts ever so slightly, his fingers squeezing hers, and in the faintest of whispers tells her,  "Christ, woman, cease yer squallin'."  
  
It's the sweetest sentiment, one lover to another, that she's ever heard.  
  
For the next four days, the innkeeper nurses Barbossa back from the brink, forcing him to drink every drop of the broth she keeps simmering in her kitchen and quantities of nourishing ale, cleaning him up when they run straight through him.  She watches him carefully, taking only a bit of necessary sleep in a chair, and is relieved when he regains some strength, the bleeding lessens, then stops, and it's finally clear that he'll not now go the way of her grandmother.  "You want to try eating something?"  she asks, smoothing her hand through his sweaty hair.  "Of course you do;  you'll starve if you don't.  Just rest now, and I'll make you a boiled chicken."  
  
Bland though it is, Barbossa's stomach has grown used to being empty of anything solid and revolts at this first attempt to put it to work.  "Shh, shh, Hector, it's all right,"  the innkeeper soothes him after he miserably retches up what little he's managed to consume out onto the floor.  "It's all right, it's to be expected;  you'll try again later."  She's certain now that he'll live, so the following week is a cycle of caring for Barbossa like a baby, letting him sleep, urging him to eat a little and drink a lot when he's awake, applying softened beeswax to his dry, cracked lips, tenderly cleaning away any foulness when the illness gets the better of him, and reassuring him that there's nowhere she'd rather be than right by his side.  
  
Once he can keep his food down and his innards start returning to more-or-less normal, the innkeeper moves him into her room after first washing him from scalp to feet with fresh, cool rainwater and clothing him in an ancient nightshirt left behind by a lodger from years before.  "Think ye t' call a surgeon t' leech me, Dove?"  he asks once he's installed in bed.  "P'raps that might rid me of th' ill humours…"  
  
The innkeeper knows he's recovering just fine and will do no such thing.  "Your face was dead white when you got here,"  she answers.  "You think I want leeches to make it whiter?  Pfft.  Now lie down."  
  
Barbossa's bone-weary and doesn't argue — he hates leeches, anyway, and the last thing he wants is for some butcher surgeon to insist he should be bled — but is up and about the next morning.  "Gotta see t' th' men…"  He stops and tries to stretch, but something's wrong.  "Hunh, me clothes don't fit right,"  he says in consternation.  "Th' cut's ruined.  Why might that be?"  
  
"Because they were filthy and stinking and it was either three turns through the wash kettle or burn them,"  the innkeeper replies bluntly.  "All things considered — especially since I didn't have anything except that old night rail to dress you in — I thought you might prefer the wash."  
  
If there's any temptation to backhand her for wrecking his favorite coat, it dies away the instant he realizes what she's been putting up with and that she's been lucky to escape getting violently sick herself.  "Ah, Dove, no matter, 'tis all right.  I could use a new suit of clothes anyway, and in any case, me hat still fits."  
  
Barbossa gingerly makes his way to the center of town, where he pays a visit to the tailor, slipping him an extra handful of gold to hurry up with the fashioning of a new coat, sark, breeches, waistcoat, sash, and stockings ("Cut all th' buttons off th' old an' sew 'em on th' new,"  he instructs.  "Ye'll be one short on th' coat, but it don't matter.");  then he has a look through the town's rooming houses, which turns up bad news:  six more men have expired from the rigors of the disease, and a majority of the others are still too frail to put out to sea.  Never mind;  a fortnight or so more in port won't hurt one bit, he tells them.  What he doesn't say is that if the flux takes them again while none are well and they're far from shore, they won't be as fortunate as they were this time, and he doesn't care to be captaining a ghost ship.  
  
It's a good thing he doesn't press the matter, because that very evening, as he sits in front of the kitchen hearth warming his feet while he waits for his supper, some familiar, unpleasant symptoms start to set in.  
  
"Are you all right?"  the innkeeper asks him, concerned by the way he's wrapping his arms around himself and the shuddery sound of his breathing.  
  
"Mm."  
  
That's no answer, and,  "Hector!"  she says sharply.  "How are you feeling?  Tell me;  I can't help if you don't!"  
  
Barbossa's teeth have begun to chatter, making the words difficult to get out.  "I got th' shakin' sickness when I were young, an'… an'…"  
  
He can't finish the sentence, but doesn't have to, as the innkeeper — just as well as everyone else on the island — knows the dangers of malarial fever and has suddenly recognized it for what it is.  "Come upstairs and let me get you back into bed…"  
  
"Don't boss me, wench!!"  
  
He's never once called her that insulting 'wench' before, but she ignores it, ascribing it to the lack of agency he must feel over his ailing, treacherous body, saying only,  "Well, someone has to."  The innkeeper puts her hand on his forehead;  frowns deeply.  "Lord Almighty!"  she exclaims.  "Hector Barbossa, you're burning up!"  
  
"Burnin'?  Nay, I'm bloody freezin'!"  It's not a surprise to Barbossa, as many times as he's gone through this, but that doesn't make him feel any better.  "All right, aye, so mayhap a spell abed won't go amiss…"  
  
For the second time, he's the weaker of the two as he clings tight to the innkeeper, allowing her to assist him up the stairs.  "I've plenty of blankets,"  she murmurs, covering him over and tucking them in so his shivering won't shake them off.  "Now, you try to rest;  I'm going over to the apothecary to get some bark for tea…"  
  
"Don't leave me."  It's soft;  so soft that she almost doesn't hear it.  "Dove, stay.  Don't need th' bark;  I'll be fine without it."  
  
The innkeeper presses a kiss to his forehead.  "But you'll be much better off if you take it,"  she tells him.  "Try to sleep, and I'll be right back."  
  
By the time she returns with a small packet of bark of Peru, the worst of the chills have passed and Barbossa's now feeling the fever heat.  "I'm here, I'm here,"  the innkeeper says reassuringly, twining her fingers into his for a moment.  "I'll be just downstairs making the decoction for you to drink."  
  
Barbossa well remembers its bitterness and wrinkles his nose.  "Don't want it;  tastes fuckin' horrible!"  
  
"Yes, but you'll drink it anyway…" — it's a good sign, with this coherent combativeness, that he's not as febrile as he could be — "… because if you don't, I'll tie up your hands, sit on your chest, and pour it down your gullet;  how's that?"  
  
"Ye're a fiendish woman, Dove."  
  
"Am I?"  
  
"Are ye not?"  
  
"No."  Another kiss to the bridge of his nose, and the innkeeper's gone.  
  
She comes back up after a time with a mug full of liquid that Barbossa stares at with revulsion and has to will himself to drink.  "Eurghhh!"  he splutters after managing to get half of it down.  "No more!"  
  
"Drink the rest of it."  
  
"Nay!"  
  
"Aye.  Fight me, and I'll… I'll… I'll cut the feathers off your hat!"  
  
"Ah, ye wouldn't."  Barbossa's eyebrows go up.  "Would ye?"  
  
The innkeeper takes the mug from his hands so he can't get around having to drink it by sloshing it out on the floor.  "Oh, Hector,"  she murmurs, rubbing his shoulder.  "I've seen this before, and so have you.  I know you'd be all right without the bark, but I also know you'll get better so much faster if you drink it.  Please, for me?"  
  
It's that quiet entreaty that compels Barbossa's agreement, and he knocks back the remainder of the tea;  quickly, trying to imbibe it before the excruciating bitterness can register on his tongue.  "Blechhh,"  he groans, though he does manage to laugh.  "Ye wouldn't have somethin' t' get th' nasty taste out of me mouth now, would ye?  Mayhap, an apple?"  
  
As a matter of fact, the innkeeper does have something, bringing him a sliver of sugar cane to chew on.  "I've no apples at the moment,"  she says,  "but I'll get some the next time I do the marketing."  
  
The fever doesn't last long, breaking abruptly within a couple of hours, after which a river of sweat sets in and Barbossa lies limply in bed, naked, while the innkeeper fans him.  "That's all right,"  she whispers when the sweating finally stops and he drops off to sleep.  "You'll feel better in the morning."  
  
It's an odd thing, Barbossa's noticed:  that each time a spell comes on, and no matter how shaky and feverish he's been, he feels quite extraordinarily well afterward, and this time is no different.  "Mmm,"  he sighs upon waking just past dawn to find the innkeeper curled up half-asleep at the foot of the bed, one hand reaching up to grasp at his knee.  "Ye cannot be comfortable like that, Dove;  will ye not come up here an' lie aside me?  Come along, now…"  
  
It takes her a few moments to realize that, while she's clad in everything but her shoes, there was no opportunity for Barbossa to don his nightshirt or even pull up the sheet, and he's still just as nude as can be.  "Hector, it's daylight, you should cover up,"  she tells him, blushing.  
  
"An' does that matter?"  he asks.  "Ye been looking 'pon all me bits in daylight e'er since I got here."  He turns even redder than she is as he tries to put the distasteful circumstances from his mind.  "An' not at me best, neither, so what be th' diff'rence t' look at me now?"  
  
The innkeeper's blush deepens, but not because she's embarrassed, not really;  truth is, she quite loves being able to see her man in the light, and if that makes her shameless, then so be it.  "It's just… you've been so sick, and I don't want you to exert yourself too soon..."  
  
"Gah:  too soon!  Not soon enough, ye mean."  _Had me arse glued t' a fuckin' chamber pot when all this time I shoulda been holdin' ye tight wi' me prick sunk deep in yer sweet little cunny,_   is what Barbossa thinks but doesn't say, knowing full well that such bald words would fly just fine in a brothel, but not here, not with her, not after how lovingly she cared for him.  Still, the fact of it is true, and,  "I _need_ t' exert meself, Dove, so bring yer soft little self up here."  A wide smile spreads across his face when the innkeeper slides up against him, her cheek tucked against his neck.  "Oh aye, lass, that's it…"  
  
But in spite of all his talk of wanting exertion, what he actually does is embrace her and nestle close.  He'll ravish her later, to be sure, but right now, it's softness and warmth and the quiet comfort only his own woman can give him that Barbossa really craves.  And so the exhausted pair whisper together for a minute or two as they trade kisses, then close their eyes and sleep through the morning, waking only when the sun tips well past noon.    
  
  
-oOo-  To Be Continued  -oOo-   


	2. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His health now vastly improved, we begin with a bit of play between our couple as Barbossa shows his seductive side (Awww. He deserves it after how dreadful he's been feeling), and end with a look into his heart. In between, he shows just how seriously he takes his role as captain as he inspects his ship and cares for his crew with a little aid from the innkeeper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The peppercorns the innkeeper uses were worth their weight in silver during this time, both as a preservative and for flavor. She always keeps small amounts in her pantry that she buys in the marketplace, but since Barbossa frequently takes prizes that are carrying barrels of peppercorns and other spices, he brings her gifts of much larger quantities when he has them.

 

 

 

 

Barbossa regains his health, thanks to the innkeeper's attentive care and good cooking, with only the occasional rumbling twinge in his gut to remind him of what he's just been through.  Grantham House still hasn't been opened back up to guests, which suits him fine, for it gives him the run of the establishment as though he owns it, allowing him to sit in the parlor with naught on but his breeches, or with nothing at all on, for that matter.  "So what be wrong with this, then, eh?"  he teases the innkeeper one evening when she enters the room to find him, pipe in hand and blowing smoke rings, lounging naked on the settee.  "See somethin' what takes yer fancy?"  
  
She says nothing at first — doesn't have to, not when her saucy smile signals such appreciation and desire — but comes toward him, half-looking, half-not, until she's within reach and he can grasp her around the waist.  "Want to come upstairs?"  she asks, twirling a fingertip through the light frizzle of hair on his chest.  
  
"Why, Dove?  What be wrong with here?"  Barbossa drags the innkeeper to the floor, holding her still as he lifts her skirts over his head and roots around beneath them, pressing kisses along her thighs and snickering when the touch of his tongue to her tenderest places makes her whimper and wriggle and catch her breath.  It's during times like these when he says a brief, silent thanks to Tia Dalma who, when she raised him from the dead, gave him back all his appetites and abilities plus more stamina to indulge them than a natural man of his age might have.  
  
They eventually do end up in their room, where Barbossa leisurely makes love to the innkeeper a second time.  "Feel that, Dove?"  he breathes, taking her hand and coaxing her to probe along her own belly, her fingers finding him where he's tucked away inside her.  "So tell me, did you e'er dream when ye were a girl that ye'd be abed like this wi' me now?"  
  
The innkeeper giggles.  "I dreamt of you then, Hector, and I still do."  
  
"Really?"  This intrigues him.  "Of what d' ye dream now, sweet?  Tell me;  don't be shy."  
  
There are serious things of which the innkeeper dreams and hopes that she will never tell her wandering lover:  that one day he'll return to shore, never to leave her again;  that he'll offer the gift of his name as she stands with him before the parson, a veil covering her hair and flowers in her hands;  that they'll live a long, comfortable, happy life together, unbothered by constables bearing arrest notices or death warrants.  But she knows that these things are impossible, so she keeps them to herself and instead tells Barbossa about other dreams of a simpler sort:  how she loves the feel of his warm arms, hard muscles, soft lips, and the weight of him when he presses down upon her.    
  
Of how her heart clutches when she glimpses his ship coming in and how thrilled she is when she finds him at her door.  
  
Barbossa closes his eyes and smiles to himself, gratified by this litany of ways in which he pleases her.  He's been told such things by women before, but they were women who said them in exchange for his coin and he knows they didn't mean them.  The innkeeper, though… _There been so many times ye came t' me in dreams yerself, m' darlin',_   he thinks,  _more times than ye know._       
  
He'd stay closeted away for the next month at the inn with his lady and be perfectly happy, but presently, he recalls the responsibilities that are his as captain:  he must row out to the ship to examine the conditions aboard her, making certain that those in charge of her care are doing their jobs and aren't in such poor temper that they're murdering each other;  furthermore, the rest of his crew must be tended to, and the last time he checked in on them, most were unwell.  
  
The following morning, after a good breakfast of toasted bread and gammon washed down with ale, Barbossa kisses the innkeeper's cheek, grins at her, and bids her have a fine supper waiting once he's completed his day's errands.  "But first, a bath,"  he adds.  "Daresay I'll have th' stench of much sickness 'pon me, an' ye've already borne more'n enough of that."  And there _is_ that, of course, but what Barbossa really wants is to feel the touch of fresh water and sweet castile on his skin while he still can.  Ordinarily, everyone aboard ship lives in itching sweat and filth and takes no notice of it, but that's no reason not to enjoy washing it away at every available opportunity.  "Clean me up, Dove, an' then mayhap ye might join me in a fresh tub of water…?"  
  
It'll be a lot of lugging from the well and heating multiple kettles on the grate, but the prospect of the end result has the innkeeper smiling.  "I'll do that.  Now go on and I hope your men are all right."  
  
  
  
-oOo-  
-oOo-  
  
  
  
Barbossa rows idly out to the _Black Pearl_ , savoring the freshening air as he pulls away from land and appreciating the beauty of his ship as she grows larger in his sight.  Though he's carefully watched by his men while he's still too far away to identify, there are no threats or warnings once his approach is within pistol shot;  not when he's so readily recognizable.     
  
"Cap'n!"  a pair of crew members exclaim as Barbossa hoists himself onto the _Pearl's_ deck and takes a few seconds to settle his balance to the sway of the ship beneath him.  "Glad t' see ya."  
  
He doesn't tell them how very glad he is to see them both still untouched by the sickness and instead, gives them a gruff nod and an order to report.  A quick inspection turns up decks properly scrubbed and wetted down, ropes coiled, and everything in its place.  "I'd say ye've all well earned yer extra shares,"  he tells the skeleton crew assembled around him.  "Have th' lot of ye been goin' ashore as I said ye might?"  There've been a few squabbles in that regard, but all in all, things have run smoothly and Barbossa's not inclined to argue about how the men managed to work it out amongst themselves.  "Good.  Ye may take it in threes an' fours t' go ashore now, if ye so wish, long as th' work gets done an' th' _Pearl_ be protected, an' there's this:  in our next port, ye'll be first ashore an' for th' longest time."  
  
No one ever said Barbossa was an easy captain, and there are days he's downright cruel, but even so, he has a reputation for fairness.  Between their extra shares and this decision about future port time, the men are decidedly happy.  
  
"I'll have two of ye t' row me back in, an' that'll make four what's ashore right now,"  he adds.  "Snap to!"  
  
Once back ashore, Barbossa goes from one rooming house to another to examine his men, questioning them as to how they've recovered;  notes that most of them look terribly hungry.  "Are ye not eating?"  he inquires.  "Won't do me or the _Pearl_ one damn bit of good if ye get o'er the squits only t' starve t' death."  
  
A bit of prodding turns up the fact that, after seeing what a gut-twisting job it did on five of their number, they just can't face the heavy-as-lead, ill-prepared food of the taverns and have been living on small amounts of bread and beer.  "Well,"  Barbossa says to his quartermaster after a moment.  "Don't 'spect me t' do this more'n once, but…  I know where ye might get some fine fare" — an instant's thought tells him he doesn't want the men trooping through his haven at Grantham House — "so th' cook'll be bringin' it to ye two days hence."  
  
'The cook' presses her hands to her face when Barbossa tells her of his plan.  "But how?"  she cries.  "And what will they think of me?"  
  
"Don't be a goose;  now why would ye worry 'bout somethin' like that?  Ye're the cook, an' ye're with me;  they need know no more'n that."  He clucks at her.  "Don't be so timid, sweet;  they won't dare harm ye.  Now, what will ye make?  I'm thinkin' some well-spiced meat an' bread."  
  
"I suppose I could do that."  The innkeeper thinks over her recipes.  "Perhaps… roast chickens done with limes and peppercorns just the way you like, if you'll go to the market with me to carry it all back home?"  
  
The very idea makes Barbossa's mouth water.  "Oh aye, 'twill be good, that, an' will do well for th' crew t' have yer fine food in their bellies."  That decided, he circles his hand on the innkeeper's backside, then gives it a smack.  "Now then, ye gave me yer promise this mornin' t' join me in a bath afore supper, and I always collect on what's promised me…"  
  
  
  
-oOo-  
-oOo-  
  
  
  
While Barbossa tackles the relatively easy task of beheading all the squawking chickens, the innkeeper plucks and eviscerates them;  and, by the time she's done, she's covered with blood and feathers.  "Looks like ye've been through a battle!"  Barbossa laughs at her.  
  
"I've never cooked for so many men before.  It's not the same as just my few lodgers."  She wets a rag;  wipes her face and hands.  "I'll start the first spitful to roasting and be done with them all come suppertime…"  
  
The innkeeper's sweating prodigiously and her face is red from the heat once she removes the last skewer of deep-brown chickens from the fire, pulls them apart, and rubs the pieces with salt, lime juice, and crushed peppercorns, adding them to the large kettle where the rest of the chicken has been keeping warm.  "Have I a few minutes to wash up?"  she asks Barbossa.  
  
"'Course, sweet."  
  
"And leave that chicken alone,"  she adds, seeing that he's eyeing the kettle.  "I saved you some;  it's in the copper pot."  
  
Barbossa has eaten several pieces by the time she comes back from washing and changing into a clean smock.  "Mmph, good,"  he says, licking the grease off his fingers.  "Can't no more eat a chicken without thinkin' how ye make it best in all th' world."  
  
"I'm glad you think so,"  the innkeeper replies, pleased at the compliment and even more at the notion that, no matter where he is, consuming a chicken will bring her to his mind.  "You sure you want me to wear this?  It's not exactly the prettiest thing I own."  
  
"Aye, Dove.  'Tis food I be givin' th' crew, not a chance t' ogle yer charms."  
  
The innkeeper bustles about, packing dozens of loaves of bread in a sack, while Barbossa lifts the heavy covered kettle filled to the brim with citrusy chicken parts and sets it on the grate while he fetches the inn's wheelbarrow.  " 'Tis kind of ye t' do this for me crew,"  he tells her while they're loading everything up.  "Now, stay close by me, for we'll not be goin' where any good woman should be."  
  
He warned her of that beforehand, but these are her beloved's men, and if she can help them in this way, then she will.  _I wonder what besides 'pirate's whore' the townsfolk will call me now?_   she thinks ruefully as they leave Grantham House and head down the hill.  _Though I suppose it really doesn't much matter._    
  
Although she's passed a dozen taverns countless times throughout her life, the innkeeper has never been near the town's cheap rooming houses, packed in as they are between brothels, opium dens, and the other questionable places she has no reason to be, and she's self-conscious before the painted ladies who flaunt their exposed legs and nipples at Barbossa, afraid it will excite him and that he'll find her appearance wanting in comparison.  But he pays them no mind, and,  "Careful, Dove,"  he tells her,  "an' follow directly in my steps, one after 'nother, so's ye don't sink in th' muck."  
  
They come to a tilted, sprawling building, where Barbossa hollers for his men to come outside.  "Cap'n!"  the large group cry in chorus once they've made their way down the rickety stairs;  then, uncertainly,  "Miss."  
  
"Brung ye some decent grub like I promised, gents;  th' best ye'll have all year,"  Barbossa announces.  "Got roasted fowl done up wi' limes, so gather 'round an' help yerselves.  Ye may thank this fine lady what made it, an' take from her hand th' fresh bread t' go with."  
  
The men are surprised by the sight of the innkeeper and stunned that Barbossa should show this kindness toward them;  and, as they greedily eat, sucking the tender chicken off the bones and gnawing at the crusty bread, their eyes flash back and forth between her and the captain, wondering who she is and what she might possibly be to their fearsome leader.  But though he volunteers nothing, the gentle hand the innkeeper puts on his elbow once the meal is finished and the pair are moving on to their next destination has the men smiling at each other.  "That's a right decent woman, she is,"  a tall, skinny fellow says.  "Where'd he find her?  You seen her before?"  
  
Only one among them has, and he says nothing, being as loyal to Barbossa as any man has ever been.  _He chose well, did th' Cap'n,_   he thinks.  _Though I fear for th' storms that may blow about them, still I say:  fair seas t' them both._  
  
Barbossa and the innkeeper make the rounds of other, smaller roomers, ascertaining the condition of his men and distributing the food until he's checked all of them out and the kettle is empty.  "Well then, it looks like the men be now fit an' well fed,"  he comments once they reach home and she begins straightening up the kitchen and preparing to wash out the kettle.  "A day or two t' reprovision, an' we'll be off."  
  
The innkeeper nods, but does not reply, ashamed to admit that this is not what she wants to hear.  
  
Her silence screams at him more loudly than if she had shouted her feelings straight in his face.  "Dove?"  he whispers, coming up behind her and wrapping both arms around her shoulders.  "Dove, what is it that makes ye so afeared?  'Cause you are, an' don't argue.  Ye seen me off a dozen times, but this be diff'rent.  Why?"  
  
How can she possibly answer this question? _Because you came to me near dying this time,_   she thinks.  _What if it should happen again, and I'm not there to help?  Because I'm so lonely without you to hold me and talk to me and keep me warm.  Because I'm afraid the bloody Royal Navy will catch up with you and hang you!_    
  
She says none of this.  She can't.  
  
Barbossa doesn't ask again, only murmurs,  "Leave off yer cleaning, sweet;  I daresay 'twill still be here t' do on th' morrow.  Ye must come up now, an' lie down.  Come lie down wi' me…"  While he speaks, he's untying her apron;  lets it drop to the floor.  "Put yer arm 'round me neck, now, an' let me take ye for a ride."  
  
He carries her up the stairs and kicks open the door to their room;  lays her down on the quilt, sits down, and leans over her.  "Ohhh, what shall I do with ye, darlin'?"  he sighs.  "On a reg'lar day, I have not th' trick of knowin' what be in yer mind if ye don't tell me, but this… Ye think I don't know how it pains ye when we must part?  Ye think I don't know how brave ye've always been t' let me go though I know how ye fear for me?"  Barbossa presses his lips to the innkeeper's ear, for it's an agony to say what he's about to, and he cannot look upon her face lest he, too, will cry.  "Ye think there weren't a terrible ache in me heart t' come back an' find our little one cold in th' ground, 'specially knowin' what torment ye went through t' carry an' birth an' bury him?  Think that ache be not there still?"  It's the first time he's spoken of the unhappy day he came ashore to discover he'd fathered a stillborn son because the subject's far too upsetting, but something deep inside compels him to speak of it now;  to tell her she need not bear the grief alone any longer.  "We been through a lot, you an' me, an' not all of it good, but at least 'tis always been you an' me.  Understand me, Dove?  Whether I be here or anywhere else, an' no matter what happens, 'tis always been you an' me."  
  
It's so very hard not to confess his love, but damn it, he's Captain Hector Barbossa, wed to the sea and his ship, a vicious, murdering savage wanted for the most ghastly of crimes, and he cannot — _cannot_ — give voice to this tender feeling.  He fears a word like 'love' would be made sordid on his brutish tongue, and he will not dirty up the one pure, wholesome, beautiful thing that has ever graced his life by uttering it aloud.  
  
Still, spoken or not, he can't believe the innkeeper would fail to understand what he's tried in every other way to let her know:  that the thought of her throughout the years has given him reason to live even in the worst of circumstances;  that he returns to her again and again not for the sake of carnal favors, but because she's his woman in all things, be they good or bad;  that as wicked as he himself is, he still honors her for her goodness and kindness and humor.    
  
That he regards her as his own dear spouse in practice if not in law.  
  
"Budge over, sweet,"  Barbossa says, stripping off his boots, then curling up with the innkeeper whom he holds before him in the manner of spoons, one hand absently stroking the curve of her hip as he begins crooning the songs his men chant when they're working:  of capstan and halyard and short haul, the music of his everyday life.  His rough, low voice and rhythmic singing are soothing, and finally, he feels her relax and drift off.  "Sleep now, an' dream of this:  'tis you an' me, Dove,"  he repeats softly.  "'Tis always been you an' me.  You an' me, Dove.  You an' me.  You an' me…"  
  
  
  
-oOo-  To Be Continued  -oOo-


	3. Departure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emotional farewells are made and a surprising token is given as Barbossa prepares to gather his crew and go back to sea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final story chapter. It includes a postscript of extended notes and the promised illustration link.
> 
> Is this the separation that leads to WIDOW'S WALK, I wonder? I hope not, but you never know.

 

 

 

 

The evening before he weighs anchor is a quiet one for Barbossa, its time dedicated to eating well, doing a bit of advance planning, enjoying a last freshwater bath, and burrowing under the covers with the innkeeper in his arms.  If things go as they normally do, he'll spend the next several months hungry, dirty, and lonely, with only the planning available to him for amusement and even the results of that frequently go awry.  Please God, let the flux not strike him, not like it did this time.  Privately, Barbossa's not so sure he'd survive it again without the innkeeper's loving care.  
  
They don't talk much.  What would they say?  "Goodbye"?  "I'm going to miss you"?  Better to spend the time in the wordless humming and cooing that says more about the state of their hearts than speech ever could.  
  
Presently, the innkeeper gets up and straddles the small of Barbossa's back, massaging his shoulders and neck with fingers made strong by hard work.  "Ungggg,"  is the only sound he makes, but his smile shows it's a blissful one.  
  
She silently works him over, hands sliding along the scars that are the map of his outlaw's life, fingertips tracing the large compass rose that's inked on his back.  She asked him once why it wasn't on the front where he could see it, but he only shrugged and said it didn't matter;  that the winds and directions were all around him, observed or not… and then came home a year later with an eight-point rose adorning one of his nipples.  "Said ye wanted me t' be able t' see it,"  he teased her.  
  
When she got over the surprise of seeing it there, the innkeeper confessed that she thought it beautiful and… 'arousing,' was the word she couldn't quite say.  
  
"So, what would ye say if I got one inked on th' head of me langer?"  
  
"Hector!!  Don't you dare!"  
  
Barbossa roared with laughter.  "Don't worry, Dove, 'twere only a joke;  I bain't likely t' let anyone be pokin' sharp objects anywhere near it."  
  
The innkeeper's remembering this exchange now as she strokes her hands along each spoke of the compass, then falls down alongside him, her gaze intent through the dim light of the candles.  
  
"What d' ye want of me, darlin'?"  he asks her.  "Tell me:  what d' ye want?"  
  
Her yearning for him to mark her overcomes any bashfulness in speaking.  "I want to feel your teeth and claws all over me,"  she says, low, twisting her fingers into his hair,  "and then I want you to take me so hard that I'll ache into next week."  
  
_Once you're gone._  
  
Barbossa understands, and obliges.  
  
  
  
  
-oOo-  
-oOo-  
  
  
  
   
The innkeeper carefully helps her Captain dress in each piece of his new suit of clothes:  fastening his breeches, pulling on stockings and boots, tugging his sark into place, buttoning his waistcoat, knotting his sash and buckling his belt, helping him into a coat of grey even richer than the old one, and settling his baldric over his shoulder before tying a fresh blue kerchief around his head.  "Oh my, Hector, you're such a fine and handsome man,"  she whispers in admiration, nodding, but her smile is bleak.  
   
Then,  "I'm sorry, Dove,"  says Barbossa quietly, running his fingertips along her hairline and circling them at her temples.  "Sorry ye've had t' know me in such loathsome sickness.  Sorry it left but little time for us t' enjoy each other's company afore I must run off again."  He can see the innkeeper's trying not to cry, but in spite of her efforts, one tear escapes and dribbles down her cheek, to be followed by another, and another.  "Ah, there now,"  he tells her, and his men would be shocked to hear how tender their ferocious commander sounds.  "Ye mustn't weep, lass;  not for me."  
  
"If not for you, then for whom should I weep?"  The innkeeper's voice is shaky, and she's trembling in Barbossa's arms.  "Since I was just a girl… since you first came here, I've wanted you and no one else, so who… who…?"  
  
She hiccups, loses control, and breaks down in wracking sobs, sick at the thought of letting him go.  
  
Barbossa rocks and nuzzles and tries to comfort her, rubbing her back while she cries herself out, knowing it's only fair to temper his usual inclination to peevish impatience after the ordeal she's been through with him these past few weeks.  "Hisht, darlin',"  he murmurs.  "Hisht.  Ye mustn't tear yerself apart like this."  For once, he doesn't frown or try to be clever or laugh it off;  and, when she calms down, he lays out some simple facts.  "Look here:  ye know what m' life be like, but you also know I've long survived it.  Ye've seen me now at death's door — ain't th' first time I been there, neither — but I survived that, too.  I bain't easy t' kill, Dove, 'specially not with such a one as yer pretty self t' come home to.  An' though I must go away now, I'll be back, for naught on land or sea can keep me from ye."  
  
They hold tight to each other, impressing upon their memories warmth and shape, scent and taste.  "Promise me, Hector,"  the innkeeper pleads.  "Promise me you'll come back."  
  
The way she says this disturbs Barbossa, for while it's not the first time, she's never sounded so anguished and frightened before.  "Ye know I will, so ye must not dwell on it."  He kisses the innkeeper fiercely;  kisses her twice and thrice and a fourth time before saying firmly,  "I must away now, Dove, for th' men be a-waitin'.  But remember, I've made ye me promise and now I'll hold ye t' yer own:  that you an' Grantham House'll be here for me when I come home."  
  
"We always have been.  And we always will."  
  
"Then shall ye watch from atop for me as I sail away?"  On purpose does Barbossa not call it what it is — a widow's walk — because he doesn't want to put that sad word in the distressed innkeeper's mind.  "Shall ye wave so's I know ye think of me as I pass o'er th' horizon?"  
  
The innkeeper fears the height of the widow's walk, but for Barbossa, she would do anything.  "Of course I will."  
  
"An' will ye give yer solemn promise t' think of me always an' ne'er forget me, any more'n I'd e'er forget you?"  
  
In what lifetime could she possibly forget this man who's been the most wonderful part of her existence?  "That's a promise you've always had, Hector."  
  
There's a small ornament lying between her breasts — the black pearl ring he gave her — and Barbossa draws it out by the gold chain it's strung on.  "Don't e'er sell this or give it away,"  he admonishes her, kissing the ring before he tucks it back into her bodice,  "for if ye do, ye'd be sellin' me heart."  
  
It's what the innkeeper's long wanted — for Barbossa to acknowledge that he gave her the ring as more than a pretty bauble — and there's something she wants him now to know.  "When you return,"  she says,  "you'll find that Grantham House is no more a place for paying lodgers, but a home for you alone."  
  
Though he's never pressed her for it, this has always been Barbossa's wish:  that she retire from a landlady's toilsome work and live the life of ease for which he long ago provided the means.  "Then I must come back soon t' share it with ye, Dove."  He kisses her cheeks, her forehead, her lips, her hands, and then does something she never expected:  he removes the pendant from around his neck — the one she's always admired, with its winking ruby and mysterious twining snake — and fastens it about hers.  "You wear that for me while I'm gone, an' when I come home, ye may welcome me by givin' it back.  But t' do that, I must first go away.  Now dry yer eyes, for I'd like best t' take wi' me the mem'ry of ye sweet an' smilin'"  A final kiss before he says what he always does,  "Until next time, then, m' darlin'."  
  
The innkeeper caresses his scarred cheek one last time before she turns away, that she will not see the closing of the door as he leaves.  Once he's gone, it's a long way to climb to the inn's widow's walk, and she makes it slowly, looking down at the harbor once she reaches the top.  The _Black Pearl_ is easy to see where she's anchored offshore, but the ship's not what she's interested in;  not yet.  
  
She spots Barbossa in his big feathered hat as he wades into the crowd of men he commands;  watches them pile into the long cockboats, some of which have been tied up for weeks, some newly rowed ashore by those minding the _Pearl_ in order to hold fresh provisions.  There are all sorts of men — tall, short, thin, fat, straight-backed, and bent — but only one has the bearing of her own Captain, proud in the new clothes she just dressed him in.  He's among the first to leave, that he might be on his ship when the others arrive.  
  
She can't see quite that far and doesn't know that the first thing Barbossa does when he reaches the quarterdeck is to pick up his spyglass and look back toward land, toward the widow's walk of the house he just left.  "I'll be back, Dove,"  he whispers to himself when he spots the innkeeper raising her hand to wave, just as she promised.  "Ye may count on it."  
  
But however much Barbossa might wish to keep looking towards her, he can't, for there's the business of a ship to be run.  Still, if he could, his heart would be gladdened to see how steadfastly his Dove keeps her promise:  that, until the silhouette of the Pearl falls away over the horizon, she never once leaves her perch, nor does she drop the hand which stretches out toward him;  not just to send her love as she bids him farewell, but also to let him know she'll be faithfully waiting, however long it might be, for the day he returns.

 

  
  
  
-oOo-  FIN  -oOo  
  
  
  
  
  
  
—————  
  
  
  
  
  
  
-oOo-  
  
Postscript:  Author's Notes & Observations  
  
-oOo-

 

I'm fond of author's notes, and as they were getting longer and longer, I decided to incorporate them as something of a mini-chapter within the larger whole.  You can skip them if you like, but a little background never hurts;  besides, it gives me a chance to philosophize a bit on the nature of the dramatis personae.  And whatever else you don't read, do check out the illustration link.  It's beautiful.  
  
I'm sure you found the first part of the story pretty gross, but hey…  Captain Barbossa does not escape disease any more than other sailors of the period do, and illness is never pretty.    
  
Dysentery ('the bloody flux' to the delicately-minded, though we've seen that Barbossa is much more vulgar about it) is a miserable, infectious condition that, once it gains a foothold, will run rampant among those living in crowded, unsanitary conditions like those found aboard Barbossa's 18th century ship.  It is no respecter of position and will plague everyone from the lowliest bilge rat all the way up to the captain himself.  This is no mere case of the runs;  it's a severe form of gastroenteritis which is debilitating, profoundly dehydrating, extremely painful, and often deadly;  deadlier still the longer those who are ill remain in a dirty environment, whether at sea or ashore.  The type which afflicted Barbossa and his crew was bacillary — specifically, shigella:  _S. dysenteriae_ — brought on by contaminated food and made worse by a cook with dirty hands and dirty habits (who, just as an aside, was one of those who died).  Perhaps it's a good thing that Barbossa was not conversant with disease prevention practices, or he'd no doubt have keelhauled him.  Twice.  
  
Having sailed and done business all over the world, particularly in hot, damp climates, Barbossa has had to contend with exposure to a variety of tropical diseases;  and, as we've seen, one from which he did not escape was malaria.  Being a hardy man — and also because the ship he was on had recently taken a medicine chest stocked with a supply of Jesuit's bark (Peruvian or cinchona bark;  what we know as quinine) — he easily survived his initial infection with _Plasmodium vivax_ , the most widespread type of malaria.  Because he's been periodically re-exposed to P.v.-carrying mosquitoes throughout the years, he's developed a degree of resistance to re-infection;  even so, he does suffer from recurrent spells — called paroxysms — of fever, chills, and drenching sweats that can strike at any time, and the lingering effects of the disease over decades have faintly jaundiced the whites of his eyes.    
  
Why did I not represent Barbossa as a man who can throw off everything that happens to him with nary a peep of complaint?  Because that would have made him a cartoon;  hardly in the realm of the real.  Oh, he certainly and staunchly bears up under everything his life brings him, and does so because he must — he's been horribly wounded countless times by sword and dagger, pistol shot and and oaken ship's splinter, coped with repeated bouts of severe sickness, and endured more pain than any hundred men combined ever will in their lifetimes — but although he doesn't give in to them if he can at all help it, he has the same strong emotional and physical responses as any other human being.  As a leader of men, he never betrays fear in front of his crew and tries never to show weakness for other reasons unless the cause is extreme, as in this case, but ashore, in private…?  The constraints of command don't exist and he can be more relaxed;  thus, his behavior with the innkeeper is different and more of his emotions are permitted to surface.  
  
You may well question why the innkeeper didn't fall ill, especially being in such intimate contact with Barbossa as his sick nurse.  Answer:  there's a higher standard of cleanliness in her establishment and about her person than might be usual in, say, low-class rooming houses, brothels, taverns, or amongst the more crowded dwellings of the townspeople.  For starters, she keeps an orderly, clean kitchen, constantly changes out the straw stuffing in her mattresses to get rid of vermin and damp, airs out her rooms, and she's forever doing laundry outdoors and general indoor cleaning utilizing a lot of harsh homemade lye soap (her expensive castile is reserved for her personal use and for Barbossa, who finds immense pleasure in allowing her to bathe him;  a water-wasting extravagance impossible to indulge in while at sea).  Also, practically and very importantly, Grantham House sits at the top of an incline, so that the contents of emptied chamber pots — which she or her maid dump out one particular window located at a far corner of the building where it will be the least noisome and not cling to the building's foundation — will run downhill, with everything washed away by the frequent heavy rain (ick, but such were the conditions in the Caribbean at the time).  Since there are no other buildings above hers, the water in her well, upwind of the inn, isn't as likely to be contaminated.  And finally, she does a very modern thing:  she washes her hands and insists that her maid do so also;  not just in the morning, but also between tasks, a little habit she picked up after carelessly getting kitchen grime on clean sheets when she was a girl.  She only had to get beaten once by her grandmother for that lesson to sink in.  It's still quite possible — even likely — that she got a bit of a wobbly tummy, but it would be a modest, ordinary case of the trots;  not remotely near the life-threatening dysentery Barbossa had.  
  
As for the malaria, having lived her whole life on an island where mosquitoes abound and _Plasmodium vivax_ is endemic, the innkeeper was infected as a child and has been constantly re-exposed, thus conferring a measure of immunity greater than Barbossa's.  Same for all the locals;  it's why they know the apothecary usually has Jesuit's bark amongst his wares.  Like Barbossa, she does experience the occasional paroxysm, but not nearly as often as he does.  
  
An interesting little note about quinine:  some people like the taste, while others find it unbearably bitter.  Both Barbossa and the innkeeper are in the latter category.  This taste differential is in your DNA (it's called the "bitter gene") and is exactly the same thing people experience with cilantro:  some, like me, find it herbal, while others insist it tastes soapy.  
  
Because it might raise a few eyebrows to hear the innkeeper call Barbossa "a fine and handsome man" (squealing fangirls notwithstanding), this might be a good point at which to show you how he appears to her.  I found [a wonderful set of sketches by Irina Kabanova](http://bormoglot.deviantart.com/art/Captain-Hector-Barbossa-sketch-557452282) (Bormoglot/Captain Bool-Bool) at DeviantArt that illustrate quite accurately the way he looked when the innkeeper was 18 — proud, strong, and sensual — and it's the way she will continue to see him, no matter how old and beat-up he gets.  She's getting older, too, and has lived a life of hard physical labor, but Barbossa will always see the wide-eyed little serving girl who first charmed him when she was 14, the budding maiden who bewitched him throughout her teenage years, and the woman who welcomed him home from his cursed travails;  who has cared for him in every circumstance, laughed and cried with him, who's loved and always been faithful to him, even if he wasn't to her (although as he gets older and his love for her matures and deepens, that finally begins to bother him, until lately, other female company loses its interest).  Such are the eyes of the heart.           
  
As we saw in _Curse of the Black Pearl_ , Barbossa doesn't risk tying up in port;  instead, the ship is anchored a safe distance away, after which he and his men row in on the _Pearl's_ cockboats.   It would be doubly important in this instance, for if the _Pearl_ were in port and word got around that her captain and crew were deathly ill, she and her entire cargo be stolen in a trice.  
  
Yes, there are echoes of the _Black Pearl's_ figurehead, which holds a dove in her outstretched hand.  But in contrast to Jack Sparrow's belief that it symbolizes unbounded freedom, it has taken on a very different meaning over the years for Barbossa, for whom it symbolizes the journey to home, be that toward the open sea or when he's gunning for shore.  Whether or not he's consciously aware of it (I suspect not), it's no coincidence that he bestowed the pet name of 'Dove' upon the innkeeper.    
  
And one final note:  I'll bet you're wondering where Jack the Monkey is.  Well, I haven't forgotten him:  he's been here all along.   Barbossa always brings him ashore, then immediately releases him into the trees, where he gets up to monkey business until his master is ready to leave.  The innkeeper has asked Barbossa once or twice if he'd like her to feed him, but he told her no;  that Jack can look after himself.  After all, how do you explain an undead monkey who can't eat?  (at that, how do you explain Barbossa giving him peanuts in World's End?!)


End file.
